


A Girl For Sherlock Holmes

by MusingsOfOphelia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 04:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10482615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusingsOfOphelia/pseuds/MusingsOfOphelia
Summary: I started this story on my Tumblr, also known as MusingsofOphelia, and decided to flesh this out better on the archives. So here it is!





	1. Chapter 1

“Naturally you assumed I would need your interference in this matter.” The deep baritone of Sherlock Holmes crooned from his leather chair. Mycroft Holmes turned sharply from his place by the fireplace mantle, hands placed within his pockets as he glared at his younger brother.

“I am merely concerned. After Sherrinford I had not anticipated the probability of your choosing another flat mate. Least one so… different.” Mycroft stated, his eyes rolling petulantly. Sherlock had not even glanced at the manila file on the coffee table, the name Andromeda Abbott brandished on its surface. It was as if he had not even taken note of his elder brother placing it there, as if he had arrived at 221B empty handed.

Andy made her way into the kitchen at that moment, and Sherlock acknowledged it was ten AM and therefor time for her Dr. Pepper. She of course, would hear every word Mycroft and he spoke from this point on, and yet, he felt no need to lower his voice. Mycroft on the other hand whispered conspiratorially.

“I will always keep an interest on whom you choose to share your living space with. I am not sure you understand the severity of her condition. This is far too close to what we endured with _the other one_.” Mycroft continued in his low whisper. Sherlock relinquished a smile when Andy folded her tiny form into the chair across from him, what was once John’s chair. At first, she had been wary to take up perch there, and Sherlock was… touched. She had known what John had meant to him and yet, he had been ready to relinquish it to her rather abruptly, and when John stopped by she took up residence on the sofa instead. Having Andy around had been a balm to his senses and had kept nightmares at bay. He would never admit it aloud, but he had needed her far more than she had needed a place to rest her head.

The strange woman dressed in accordance with days of the week, each day a varying color that kept her organized and prevented her ever forgetting which day it was. Andy was wearing a yellow sundress today, because it was Wednesday and it was yellow day. The wide straps lay firmly against her pale, small shoulders and her feet bore black flats, the skirt ruffling against her knees as she tucked her feet under herself. Although beauty was a construct and ideal, he’d like to think Andy was so. If to no one else but to Sherlock himself. Her face was round and her cheeks were full, colored by a natural pink blush. She wore her baby fine blonde hair in a short pixie cut with swooping bangs dancing over her too large, round blue eyes, sky blue in comparison to a summer day. Her nose was petite and her lips were full and peach, and when she smiled her teeth were straight and white from meticulous brushing.

Clearly Mycroft had been still attempting to convince Sherlock of Andy’s particular disabilities but he had not been listening until she spoke in her soft melodic voice that bordered on husky and said, “The funny thing about crazy people is, everyone else just assumes we are unaware of our condition. And that we are deaf.”. With that she turned her head to Mycroft and much to Sherlock’s amusement he appeared abashed. Sherlock gave her a sly smile before standing, locking one wrist in his hand behind his back. Quickly, he reached down and extended the file to his older brother, a look of distaste furrowing his features. Mycroft on the other hand, relinquished a knowing smirk.

“Keep it. I know that curiosity will get the better of you. Good day, Ms. Abbott.” He stated, and in one swift move he was ascending the stairs and out of the front door. Sherlock dropped the file back to the table as if it were gruesome and his silver eyes met hers. She looked curious and intrigued.

“He’s purple, that one. I like him.” She stated.

Scoffing Sherlock asked, “Are you sure? Positive he isn’t pretty princess pink?” he asked.

“Purple is royalty, kingly. Powerful and steadfast. Willing to die for what he believes in, especially you. Unrequited love there, and yet heavy hangs-heavy hangs- heavy hangs the head that wears the crown.” She answered. Sherlock was baffled still at her abilities, because while he could deduce a person’s line of work, their hobbies and habits, she saw something else. Andy could decipher their true character and intentions. And although after the confrontation with Eurus he had known of Mycroft’s abounding love for his family, it still struck him as strange and alien.


	2. Chapter 2

_One Month Earlier_

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked around at the crime scene and found it to be one of the more gruesome of his career. There were two dead bodies, and blood splattered and smeared the walls, clear signs of a struggle. Yet, he found he could not focus on the scene because his attention was pulled elsewhere to his new forensic and blood splatter analyst. Sure, he was relieved Donovan had a new position in the force and that git Anderson was working in a new lab, but their replacement was quite... odd. When he was informed of her hire, he was told she was a genius to rival Sherlock Holmes and that it was high time credit went to Scotland Yard for the solving of cases. The higher ups didn't inform him she was mad as a hatter.

She was on the flat stares, climbing them each one at a time and at the second she reached the entry door, she would sharply turn back and begin her climb again. This had been going on for several minutes, as if there were some invisible force field keeping her out. Under her breath, he could hear the muttering of something about one foot on each step, not two on one at the same time, and then entering the front door on her left step. It was late and his patience was wearing quite thin by now. Lestrade ran his fingers across his forehead in frustration and was on the verge of demanding Anderson back when at last he noticed she had entered the flat and was observing the scene.

"We believe it was a domestic. The male victim done his wife in and then himself. You'll probably want to take a few DNA samples to confirm." he said, arms crossed and leaning against the door frame.

"Wrong." she answered simply, and he was taken aback.

"How is that wrong? I've been doing this for years and I know a domestic when I see it!" he answered sharply. She turned on her heel and placed her hands on her hips.

"The blood on the walls- blood on the walls- blood on the walls tells a different story!" she exclaimed and he was even more irritated. She sounded like broken record skipping when she tried to explain. Lestrade merely stared at her before she threw her hands up and began unloading her kit from her bag. She pulled on vinyl gloves and began taking pictures of the red patterns on the wall. Next, she began using a tripod and some sort of string, tacking it to the walls to measure the distance and mark the spot where the attacker would have stood. Meanwhile, Greg made a phone call because clearly, he still needed Sherlock Holmes after all.

"I told you to only consult me on interesting cases, not something so trivial as a domestic surely even you can solve this one, Greg." his deep voice resonated in the hallway as he arrived on the crime scene. In tow behind him was John Watson with a sort of lightness in his step. He had been thrilled when Sherlock had phoned him, and Molly had very willingly arrived to stay with Rosie, having missed her dearly since John had been rather keen on spending all of his free time with her. Near death experiences had made him wish to hold tighter to what he had left of Mary.

"Who is that? Lestrade you know I am against new people." Sherlock said, sounding irritated as ever. The DI then began to explain the new hire, Ms. Abbott, while Sherlock watched her moving about the scene. Every step was measured and precise, every movement counted and executed evenly and gracefully as she continued to push pins attached to red string into the wall. He began deducing immediately and found she suffered from a severe obsessive compulsive disorder rendered by early child hood trauma and abuse. She was a shy creature of elevated intelligence. Because beauty was a construct manufactured by earky childhood influences and society's demands, he wasn't quite sure how it was he fond her so beautiful. If for no other reason he found her to be so because he had never quite seen anyone like Ms. Abbott.

She was exactly five foot two and three quarter inches and one hundred and fifteen pounds. Her skin was pearly pink and nearly translucent, a mole on the left side of her cheek the only visible mark against her otherwise flawless skin. She wore her light blonde hair in a pixie cut, fashionable and timeless in the swoop of her bangs and pointed pieces by her ears. Abbot's face was baby round with a short chin and round eyes venturing on the side of cartoonish a pale blue. Sherlock remained silent, realizing she was not yet aware of his and Dr. Watson's presence.

All of a sudden, her soft voice, melodic with a touch of huskiness began firing off explanations in quick succession, "If you'll look just here at these spatters you'll see the assailant clearly had anger behind their fist and yet, the streams across the wall are thin and light. Clearly this was a botched job, a means to an end if you will. He merely wished to get her out of the way." she explained.

"Right, so the husband did it and then turned it on himself. You said he." the inspector stated, but Sherlock merely grinned as she continued.

"Still wrong. The murderer was definitely male, but was not the husband but his lover. The blood tells a different story for our male victim. His wounds and corresponding blood patterns are slow and deliberate. A crime of passion. Only a male suspect could have accomplished this sort of stabbing with a butcher's knife to human flesh. Muscles would have tensed and a heavy hand would have been necessary to accomplish the strength needed to cut through both a female and male victim. The blood flow is heavy and confined to smaller areas of the wall and this room. The larger amounts than the female in fewer areas indicates the murderer took his time and therefore this is not a domestic but a scorned lover's murder." she continued sure and firm, before turning to realize her audience had substantially grown.

Standing before her was a tall man that was glowing white and the color caused her breath to hitch. His face was thin and cheek bones structured and prominent, with eyes transferring from blue to green and silver. She had never in her life wanted so keenly to reach out and touch the skin of another human being. In fact, anytime she met a new person, she shook their hand and then immediately washed her hands, singing the happy birthday song to ensure she had washed long enough to completely destroy the germs transferred. Slowly a smile pulled at her cheeks and she took stock of the man standing next to him.

This man was shorter and yet still taller than her, glowing golden. Oh how she loved that she could see people as colors. This man was true and loyal, fiercely passionate with pain in his soul that he overcame each and every day. He wasn't looking at her quite as maddeningly as Lestrade, but close although with less mocking in his light blue eyes. He had hair like hers, blonde and short and she immediately allowed her smile to expand.

"Also, the bodies were moved." she finished, finding again her train of thought.

"There you have it. She is correct." Sherlock spoke.

"Really? But the murder weapon was in the husband's hand. And we got no prints from anyone else." he stuttered.

"It was placed there by someone who was most certainly wearing gloves. This was planned, and as Ms. Abbott has already stated the bodies have been shifted. This is also clear as the mobile device of the male victim is beneath his right calve where it slid out from the shift. In there you should find a contact and a DNA match to the guilty party." he said, all the while he stared down at Andy with a smirk and that look of raw admiration. John, on the other hand, was dumbfounded to be standing in the same room as two Sherlock's, at least, so it seemed.

The next moment, John's mouth popped open in astonishment as he heard Sherlock say, "I am in need of a flat mate. Interested? I imagine searching for a new residence is a bit difficult with the yard monopolizing your time and a hotel is hardly a home.".

"How did you know-" Andy's quiet voice asked.

"The square outline in your front pocket notorious of the infuriating but ever common key card for which you keep checking to verify its presence. Also, you're rather large bag with supplies and spare jacket, indicative of one travelling from which it would not be convenient to revisit should yo find something necessary not included." he answered her, tilting his head in waiting for her to confirm. Andy bit her lip nervously whilst Lestrade and John waited for what would happen next.

It had been a long time since Andy had friends, years since she'd been close to anyone. At his request she was taken aback, the man called Sherlock needed a flat mate. Compulsion was definitely her thing, but coming from others it was odd. Like him asking her to move in when they had just met. She touched the key in her pocket for the twenty-third time. She was fearful of losing it, because once long ago, she lost things all of the time. That was before, though. Everyone that had ever met Andy thought she was crazy, and hell she even knew it to be true. Prone to vivid hallucinations, obsessive compulsive disorder, and just a dash of manic depression topped off the ice cream Sunday of madness. No one in their right mind would want her as flat mate. If he was attempting to make some sort of joke, she would call his bluff.

"Alright then." she said waiting for the shock and nervous laughter that would soon be to follow. At that moment her watch on her wrist beeped out a cheerful tune to remind her it was a quarter until two am.

"Dr. Pepper time is soon. Ten, two and four. I have to go." she stated, and with the same meticulous and organized movements as before, she began loading her tools up.

"The flat. It's on 221 Baker Street. Apartment B" Sherlock told her, still trying to keep his grin discreet.

With her bag over her shoulder she squared up to him and lifted her chin to meet his eyes, the glow more faint now but still visible.

"I shall be there at 12 pm exactly. Detective Inspector, I'll have a fill report and labs to you at thirty-eight minutes after three." and with that, she strolled out with her head high and her foot falls precise to exit on the left step over the door frame base.

"She's mad isn't she?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Oh on the contrary, Detective. She's brilliant. I am rather pleased the Yard has finally hired someone of intelligence." Sherlock answered with a smug smile and then left with his coat whipping its tails behind him. John stood there a moment, brows furrowed and glancing about the crime scene, marveling that Sherlock Holmes had perhaps met his match.

"Can you believe he'd just ask her to move in like that?" the DI asked, still confounded.

John made a face and the shrugged his shoulders non committedly, " 'Suppose it's not different than how I got on as his flat mate." he answered.


End file.
